


A Question of Loyalty

by cymphonics



Category: AFK Arena (Video Game)
Genre: I have no idea what else to tag this as it's a lot of talking, Implied Grezhul/Thoran, It's very chill tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymphonics/pseuds/cymphonics
Summary: Whatever remains of our corpse - rotten hearts, there exists still enough to love  /  and to love  /  and to love.  & if that is all we ever understand of one another, that may be all that's truly needed.- - -Grezhul comes to speak with Shemira upon his king's request and Shemira manages to purposely fail at complying without invoking anyone's wrath.  Chill little ficlet.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	A Question of Loyalty

She’s aware of his presence long before he’s even begun his ascension of the winding, narrow steps leading to her chambers within the whispering doom ⸺ an unnecessary accommodation built and inhabited only at Niru’s ever - growing insistence ⸺ and perhaps it would be more wise of her to feel dread at the prospect of being visited by the king’s personal _lapdog_ when she knows well Grezhul never leaves Thoran’s side for something as simple as a _friendly chat_ . Perhaps, but knowing such fails to do more than exist as a fleeting thought, brushed off with ease as Shemira fails to so much as turn within her seat, content to leave her back facing the partially open door as she skims through the tome before her. She is not afraid of him, the way that others are, her husband among them for all that he swears to the contrary, and when the door _creaks_ with the unnecessary force put behind nudging it open she offers nothing but continued composure; the idle turn of a page.

“The only ones intimidated here will be my door hinges, Grezhul. You needn’t waste your time.”

“If you think I have reason to intimidate you then you already know the position you are in.”

“I can make my assumptions, yes.” Shemira replies steadily, failing to so much as lift her chin. If her full attention is desired the effort can be made to earn it, she has already decided, aware of how Grezhul has failed to venture further in than the doorway as though expecting her to adjust herself within her own quarters to better suit him: a simple guest. She does not know if it is the arrogance of youth or position but the cause matters little; he will learn to be otherwise in her company, or he will learn how quickly he can be made to leave. “But why don’t you tell me anyway? You’ve come all the way up here, I see no reason to steal away your undoubtedly well rehearsed lecture.”

Silence. A pause in the conversation. Shemira wonders when last he was spoken to in such a manner: as though he were a humored adolescent rather than a groomed killer, the king’s favored soldier.

“... His Majesty is unhappy with your lack of devotion to our cause.” Grezhul says, finally. “He was willing to overlook your lack of connection to our Lord originally at Niru’s behest, but then to deny him further with your refusal to allow Damien ⸺” “My son, you mean. A child.” “⸺ to join our forces is more insolence than can be ignored.” He continues as though uninterrupted and while Shemira cannot say she is surprised it would be a lie to say it does not cause the barest _twinge_ of annoyance, the way Damien is seen as merely fodder for war rather than a boy and the way she is seen as the odd one out for prioritizing her _son_ over whatever hollow victory may or may not be at the end of this war. Even Niru begs her to ‘listen to reason’ regarding Damien’s future, as if all the pushing does not simply entice her to cling more firmly to the boy. As if she would so willingly hand over something so beloved to be torn apart in the name of royal fancy.

What she wants to say is _screw you_. What she actually says is: “Go on.”

“Damien’s potential is being wasted here.” “His potential for killing, you mean. Not art or music or medicine or architecture ⸺ the endless list that exists outside of being a soldier for Thoran.” “His Majesty.” Grezhul corrects and he barely gets the words out before she is cutting him off, head snapping upward though her back remains to him. “⸺ I will call the man who wishes to damn my son to a pointless war whatever I so please, Grezhul!” Silence. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling are swaying in some unknown breeze, the flames within them flickering, fighting to go out / fighting to grow stronger. “... Why do you respect him still?” Shemira asks after a moment, tone quiet though there is an edge to it that was not there before and to mistake the near - whisper of her words for something gentle or weak would be a fool’s mistake. Grezhul knows better, and that is perhaps the only reason why she has not heard him draw his sword.

“He is my king.” Comes the expected reply and it’s a laughable answer, one that would have her feeling pity for the man if she were not constantly irritated with him. “It is my duty to ⸺”

“Is it your duty to hand over your soul to a false god to bring a dead king back to life?” She asks and there is a twinge of anger that she can **feel** behind her, irritation beginning to thrum through the bloodless veins existing within Grezhul’s body for show alone. “It was and is to protect my king at all costs, this is but the most minor of what can be expected from me.” He replies and it is now that Shemira finally opts to close her book, voice low and knowing as she counters:

“You’re lying, Grezhul.”

She turns, finally, to face him.

“The man you brought back is not your king. He has nothing of what Thoran had, or was. His crown is made of bones and corpses and even you are not so blind as to think your duty was to a dead man. So I will ask you again: why do you respect him still?”

Shemira can hear him swallow in the quiet that follows. It’s not an answer, but it’s the only one she needed to confirm her suspicions.

“... I see.” “I said nothing.” “I know.” And she stares with eyes seeing, yet unseen. She pauses.

“... I will attempt to say this in a way that perhaps even you can come to understand.” A sigh, heavy and long, chest lifting and lowering with a breath she does not need to take. “I love my son enough to die for him. My loyalty is with Damien, first and foremost. I lost him once, I _failed_ him. But now?” Lips purse. “I will never allow that to happen again. He has been returned to me, and I shall not squander that miracle anymore than I suspect you would squander Thoran’s return. The king need not fight his own battles while you are so willing to fight them for him, correct? Then allow me to be the sword in Damien’s hand. His battles are mine to face.”

“And if His Majesty refuses?”

“Would you allow anyone to refuse what you are now, Thoran among them?”

His mouth opens, then closes. Whatever answer he seemed to believe he had ready died before it could be given proper voice and Shemira knows why, without having to ask: there is pride in refusing her, but there is no greater lie. 

“… There is still the question of your lack of connection with the others.” And he changes the subject, slightly, enough so that he does not have to offer her a response at all and this time she does find it within herself to pity him, this man who has given what remains of his heart to a tyrant, and whose head is just as apt to fall as any other should he dare fail his king even once. To love a memory is a painful thing and she has no envy for the path he has chosen.

“I have no desire to hand myself over to Quaedam. But I have done nothing but assist in my husband’s war efforts since I was reborn, something he will attest to. If at some point my loyalty poses a true threat then I expect you back to cut me down but otherwise I see no reason to do more than take note of your lecture and send you back to your beloved king.”

“... I will speak with His Majesty on the matter.” “Goodnight, Grezhul.” And a dismissive wave of her hand, back once more turning to face him. He does not shut the door behind him as he leaves and she cannot find it within herself to care enough to amend it.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in literal years but something about the graveborn faction has me Shaken:tm: so I guess I'm here now. This is mostly a wade - back - in kinda fic rather than anything substantial but I hope it was a decent read nonetheless. May or may not make this a little series of random slice of life style ficlets depending on what I have inspiration for / if y'all have any interest in that.


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